The Lost Brewer

Janneken the Brewer was no ordinary man. He had been married three times (twice widowed by death), had seven children, and his brewery on the banks of the Gete was among the most renowned in the entire region. His beer was sold as far as Tongeren and Maastricht, and though much of it disappeared down his own throat, he had built himself a respectable reputation.

On an April night in the year 1647 — a night when the sky hung unusually dark purple and the stars gave little light — Janneken donned his finest cloak and mounted his horse. He had sold goods at the market in Hasselt and carried a considerable purse of silver with him. At home, his wife Anna awaited him with supper.

’I shall be home before midnight,’ he said, and gave his horse the spurs. The beast nickered uneasily. As if it knew what was to come.

The road from Hasselt to Halen is not long — two hours’ ride for one who masters the pace of his horse. Janneken knew the way with his eyes closed. But when he came to the Gete, to the place known as the ’Marsh Field,’ all changed.

A mist rose from the water. Not slowly, not gradually, but with the same haste as water pouring from an overturned bucket. A mist that was thick, greenish-yellow in colour, and reeking of rot and mud. Janneken’s horse stopped dead and would not be driven forward.

’Onward!’ he cried, but his voice sounded hollow in that mist. The horse refused. Janneken saw the creature trembling. Then he saw one light — no, two lights, like two great eyes in the mist. They drifted aimlessly back and forth, now close, now far away. The ’Will-o’-the-wisps’ — the marsh-fire spirits that lead travellers astray — whispered a voice in his ear. Or perhaps it was only the wind.

Janneken dismounted and began to walk. The horse followed, fearful and reluctant. The mist closed around them like the lid of a coffin.

Anna waited until midnight, then until three in the morning. Pieter, the son of Janneken’s first wife, took a torch and a group of men and went to search. They found Janneken’s horse three kilometres away, standing still and frozen with terror, but no sign of the brewer himself.

They searched for three days. They bore torches along the Gete, they called his name until their voices grew hoarse. In the marshes below, some said — though none proved it — Janneken sang, deep beneath the water, alongside the other souls taken by the will-o’-the-wisps.

On the third evening, as the sun set and rain began to fall, they heard a cry. A cry that seemed inhuman, yet was unmistakably human. They found Janneken in the marshes, sunk to his waist in mud, his cloak torn to shreds, his face white as parchment. His eyes stood wide, and they beheld things no man ought to see.

They carried him home. His wife Anna gave him broth and warm wine. But Janneken would not eat. He only stared out the window, toward the Gete, where the mist continued to rise like smoke.